


Art Study

by RadiationGroove



Series: Rhodes Scholar [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5428835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadiationGroove/pseuds/RadiationGroove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adeline watches, studies, sees.</p><p>Or, the authors indulgent love letter to John Hancocks self-esteem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art Study

Sometimes, she liked to watch him. 

Sometimes it was while they were on the road, traveling through the Commonwealth on their quest for justice. He'd walk ahead, shotgun in his grip, scouting for danger. He moved like a large cat, lithe and graceful in the sway of his shoulders and hips. These were the times he was most alert, dark eyes bright, scanning the horizon. Of course she watched him when were in the midst of firefight; she cared for him too deeply to allow any harm. There was the curl of his lip, the squint of his eyes, the way his body hovered over hers as he covered her from enemy fire. She studied him as he looted bodies, as he looked over their new treasures. There were the times that caught her breath, too; when a bullet buried itself in his shoulder or thigh, or when blood flowed red from somewhere unseen. His body tensed, face winced in pain as she dug the offending scrap of metal from his flesh, as she administered Med-X and stimpaks. 

Sometimes it was while they were in Goodneighbor. He was high on Jet, slow and lazy. He held her in his lap, gnarled fingers trailing down her arm, tracing patterns on her skin. His eyes were lidded, heavy somewhere between sleep and mindless bliss. Or, he'd popped a couple Mentats, pupils dilated with wonder. He waxed philosophic, talking with his thin, elegant hands, speech a mile a minute. She could almost see the synapses firing, the electrical connections being made. They sat at The Third Rail and she watched the bob of his Adam's apple as he drank, the wobble in his step as inebriation took over and his weight rested against her. 

Oftentimes, she watched him during sex. He was a Pre-War oil painting of biology and form. Between the strikes of blind pleasure, she devoured him. Beneath the thinned skin, she could watch every shift of muscle, every tendon contract. She loved to touch him then, too. She couldn't keep her palms off the expanse of his back, couldn't get enough of her legs about his hips or tangled though his. He was all lean muscle, the definition hiding beneath scars and destruction. 

Above all else she loved to watch his face. She never thought, especially in those moments of ecstasy, that he must have been terribly handsome before his self-destruction. No. He was handsome now, in the way his eyes rolled to the back of his head, in the furrow of his brow. She loved to watch him, when she could, when he came, the shudder and contortion of white-hot  _yes_. She watched, desperately, as he worked so hard to please her, to push her over the edge again and again. 

She watched him afterwards too. When exhaustion overcame them and he pulled her close, she was fixated. She studied the rise and fall of his chest, the complete sense of relaxation that settled in. Her fingers tripped over his chest, tangled with his when he pulled her back flush against his chest. 

Sometimes, he caught her watching. More often than not her gaze was met with a smirk and a smart comment. Occasionally, he glanced away, or brushed his fingers against hers, or pulled her into his arms to place a kiss against her lips. She watched him in early morning light, until he woke and put them face to face. He'd greet her with a sleepy smile and bury his face in her neck and beg for ten more minutes. 

Periodically, he'd ask her "You sure you wanna be stuck with this ugly mug?"

She'd always smile and nod and answer, "Definitely."

The more she watched him, the more she saw art. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> That line, "You sure you want to be stuck with this ugly mug?" always gets me, and how beautiful Hancock thinks the SS is. Just wanted to get a little fluffy blurb out of my head while I work on other things.


End file.
